


Strange and Familiar

by EntreNous



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Lestrade's Hair, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-22 13:38:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/913822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EntreNous/pseuds/EntreNous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock returns, he sees right away there's something different about Lestrade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strange and Familiar

**Author's Note:**

> A number of fans bemoaned the loss of Rupert Graves's longer hair after seeing the Sherlock Series 3 teaser-trailer. But though I totally understand the appeal of his former hair, I really like Lestrade's new style (which [you can view in gifs here](http://gravesdiggers.tumblr.com/post/57186463497/i-was-sure-i-had-my-warrant-card-a-moment-ago)). So I posted on tumblr, "And now I want to write Sherlock rubbing his face all over Greg’s cropped hair like a pleased cat." This story does feature that moment, though the dynamic grew a little more complicated as I kept writing. I hope you enjoy it.

After all the arguing and recriminations -- after Greg startled and clutched his chest like he was having a heart attack when Sherlock emerged from the shadows of that blasted car park and called, "Lestrade," in that low thrilling voice of his -- after Greg shouted and ranted for nearly an hour in response to Sherlock's rapid, practiced explanations of his supposed death and actual disappearance -- after the security attendant poked his head in at the stairwell door to see who was being violently murdered and found only the two of them still quarrelling, nearly nose to nose and growing hoarse with their yelling -- they finally leave the car park by mutual unspoken consent, neither of them acknowledging they're walking out together but matching their strides as they depart.

After a short drive, they trudge up the stairs to Greg's flat with take-away from the Middle Eastern restaurant on the corner and settle on the couch to eat in silence.

The tense quiet lasts until Greg drains the last of his water and sets down his fork.

"It's different," Sherlock observes.

Greg looks up sharply, ready to defend whatever flawed change in his life Sherlock's zeroed in on. Maybe he's about to disparage the tiny flat Greg found two years ago when he'd finally gotten it through his head he'd be living alone from now on. No doubt by this point he's noticed the old files piled in the corner, blatant evidence that the higher-ups at the Met have Greg working mainly cold cases these days. And Greg wouldn't put it past Sherlock to appraise the neatly-arranged tray on the table by the door, and in that alone find enough clues to figure out that Greg seldom meets a friend down the pub for a pint these days.

"What's different?" he forces himself to ask slowly. 

In answer, Sherlock shifts closer, moving from the outer left to center cushion of the couch, putting him directly next to Greg. He reaches out, hesitant, those mesmerizing eyes flickering to Greg's expression to watch how Greg reacts. When Greg simply sits and waits to see where this is going, Sherlock at last rests his hand gingerly on the nape of Greg's neck, his thumb cautiously skimming along the neat bottom line of Greg's close-cropped hair. 

"Oh, yeah. That." 

"That," Sherlock affirms. He drags his thumb along again, more purposeful now, as if he's measuring the texture and density by feel. 

Greg draws in a sharp breath. The sensation is undeniably erotic to him, being touched on that sensitive part of his neck, experiencing the feel of those slender elegant fingers now tracing along the base of his skull. 

"Used to have it this way in uni," he mentions, trying to sound off-hand. "It was easier with it short, playing rugby and getting to roll right out of bed to go to class. Then I grew it out when I got the job, of course. I thought it looked more adult, I reckon. But then after --" He clears his throat, because Sherlock doesn't need to hear right now that Greg marks time nowadays by the before and after of Sherlock's death. "After, I kept forgetting to cut it." He huffs a laugh. "I expect I looked a mess anyway; having the hair shaggy wasn't helping matters. Sally got after me about it so much that I decided I'd just get rid of most of it to keep her quiet. It's easy enough to keep up."

Sherlock says nothing, but he lets his palm slide to cup the back of Greg's head, a gentle pressure and unobtrusive support. 

"Dunno, maybe I ought to let it grow again," Greg says helplessly, because he can't for the life of him tell what's meant to happen now. 

He's forgiven Sherlock immediately; it's always been his way with Sherlock, and the relief at seeing him whole and breathing tonight is so palpable Greg couldn't have reacted any other way. But it will take time to get past, the shock and confusion, the lonely grief-filled years that now seem a cruel joke to him, the fact that whatever Sherlock's been up to all this time, he can't be the same man he was when he staged his death and disappeared. 

"I've thought about it a time or two lately, growing it," Greg continues. He touches his hairline just above his ear. "Might as well. It probably makes me look old." 

"No." The response is immediate, both the word and Sherlock's fingers tightening just below the scalp of Greg's head. 

"I know I look older. I am actually older," Greg says impatiently. He's never heard Sherlock try to stroke anyone's vanity before, and it's ridiculous to think he'd start now. 

" _No_ , don't let it grow again just yet," Sherlock snaps in frustration.

Before Greg can turn to look at him and take a measure of this quick change in mood, Sherlock rearranges himself to kneel on the cushion facing Greg. He pauses only for a moment then slides his arms around Greg's shoulders so he can rub his clean-shaven cheek against Greg's hair. 

Greg tries to breathe steadily, but he can hear the air passing through his nose in a shuddering intake and exhale. He manages not to move, however, neither to jump to his feet so he might flee the whole scene, nor to pull Sherlock even closer so he can refuse to let go. 

"I thought it would feel rough and coarse," Sherlock says, his voice muffled as he presses a kiss to the crown of Greg's head. 

"It doesn't?"

"No, it feels like velvet," Sherlock replies, stroking his cheek against Greg's head again, back and forth like a cat enraptured by a tantalizing surface it wants to demarcate and possess. 

It actually sounds romantic. God knows it feels that way, even apart from that trembling brush of lips from a moment ago. Greg can feel the urge to twitch back in surprise to stare at this drastic change from customary behavior. Whenever they've been together, Sherlock never tried to cuddle or make the typical loving gestures Greg had come to expect from other partners. If he's starting to act sentimental now, he's possibly in worse emotional shape than Greg might have imagined. 

Yet Greg is oddly reassured by that familiar disgruntled thread running through Sherlock's' voice when he makes his pronouncement. Yes, he seems nearly overcome, perhaps from exhaustion, likely from their extensive arguing, quite possibly from the raw reverence in this touch after a time and distance Greg imagines they'll never be able to reconcile properly. But he's also clearly annoyed that his assessment of Greg's hair didn't turn out to be spot on.

It's the recognizable frustration that makes Greg feel generous. "I'll keep it just as it is," he agrees.

"See that you do," Sherlock mutters. He tightens his hands on Greg's shoulders.

Whatever sort of reply Greg means to make to that turns to a moan instead as Sherlock breathes in with his nose pressed to Greg's hair, a deep greedy inhalation. 

Greg turns to catch Sherlock's mouth with his, and they fit together with an eloquent desperation, the strange and the familiar of the time apart and the years together converging in a heady rush.

It's some time before Greg is able to pull back, his forehead resting against Sherlock's. They've barely begun to cover what happened during Sherlock's time away; there are so many questions he needs to ask still. But for now, the best he can muster is, "You staying here tonight?" 

"Yes," Sherlock says in a hoarse whisper. He brushes his fingertips over Greg's hair, gentle and assessing as he caresses Greg's hair and maps the curve of his head. "I'm staying."


End file.
